


I'm A Rover

by anotherbird



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of "Blessed are the Peacemakers", First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pain, Pining, Smoking, alcohol as pain medication, sharing cigarettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 11:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20153152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherbird/pseuds/anotherbird
Summary: Arthur knows all colors of pain and how to deal with them. Even with the pain that is just John.He doesn't know how to deal with being bound to camp.





	I'm A Rover

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternative version of my own Arthur/Albert story "Paint it, black". 
> 
> The beginning is therefore the same, but I put in more details, so even if you read the other story, there's still new stuff. Knowledge of the other story is obviously not necessary.
> 
> Edit: fixed mistakes.

Pain came in different colors, Arthur knew. 

It was a tired blue-ish grey after too much time spent riding. Aching thighs and sore muscles, eyes and head throbbing from lack of sleep. 

A reddish brown for a broken nose or a pulled tooth or knuckles beaten bloody after a fight.

There was pink stinging heart ache, that made your heart flutter and your hands shake and turned your words into barely audible mumbling, eyes hidden under the brim of your hat. 

The green rotting pain of a longer sickness, the one Hosea knew far too much about.

The black excruciating pain of loss and dread and fear, clawing at your insides and infesting them. Nesting there and spreading, pulling you down. The one you try to paint over, but it never worked, sticking at your heels like tar. It couldn’t be washed off. It just became a part of your being. It burnt ugly scars into your skin, haunted and suffocated and you could scrub and scrub, but it never came off. 

There was the dark crimson of a bleeding, aching heart longing for something and someone that was too far out of reach, but dangling in front of your nose like a carrot.

The light grey of the dry irritating coughs that visited him from time to time.

But now there was this new pain. Feverish and blinding and mixed with panic and the inescapable knowledge that it could be the last thing you’d ever see, drenched in dreams and hallucinations. Illuminating the confusing appearance of a stag, proud yet peaceful, that didn't seem to fit into a pain that absorbed his entire being.

It was white. 

Completely drained of any color and still all colors at the same time. It was a blinding light. It couldn't be seen or touched. It was everything and everywhere. It was all Arthur saw when he slipped out of consciousness. 

A dying light, a sore throat, dry lips, thirst and heat. 

At some point they were voices. They were talking to him. Begging and pleading and whispering. They promised revenge or begged for forgiveness. They were calm or spiteful or ridden with fear. Some read to him, some threatened him. Loud and demanding, low and hesitant. They kept him company, even those that he just wanted to disappear. Someone whispering sweet promising nonsense to him. Telling him to finally die. Urging him to fight. And everyone of them called him by some different name. He didn't even know if they were real.

Sometimes he was sure, he felt someone holding his hand, an anchor. A reminder that someone was waiting for him outside of this white hell. 

But maybe he just dreamed that. 

Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. 

When he finally he woke, his union suit was drenched in sweat and old dried blood, pus and piss, the same cloth he had worn, when he had come here, but pulled down to make room for skilled hands and bandages. His shoulder felt unmovable. Raw and hot and swollen. White pain radiated into his arm down to his fingers and even into his neck and chest. Broken nose clotted with dried up blood made it hard to breath and left a stale metallic taste on his tongue. Broken ribs ached, when he tried to move, white pain flared up again and pulled at the rims of his consciousness, kicking him back into oblivion, while shadows hurried over to him.

Whenever he woke up, someone was with him. Usually Susan or Tilly, Hosea or Swanson, in the beginning at least. Someone handing him water or lukewarm stew, until the white pain lured him back into something that didn't deserve the word sleep, but didn't feel like death either. 

The fever lasted four days was what they told him later.

Afterwards. 

When he was able sit awake for more than a few minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. 

Made him feel like a kid again, these few waking minutes. With Hosea being right at his side, one hand on his clammy forehead, telling him _ It’s okay, son. You’ll be fine _in this hushed calming voice of his.

Like the time he had come down with pneumonia, when he had been just fifteen. 

Dutch would come. Later. When Arthur could sit upright without looking like a corpse. Dutch couldn’t handle sickness. Never could. Mortality wasn’t something he really liked to face. Never did. Arthur couldn’t fault him even.

But after more than a week, he could keep his eyes open. Could listen to Swanson explaining to him that he would indeed live. That the worst was behind him.

Now they just needed to wait. Have patience. Sit it out.

Wait for the pain to numb down. For nerves and bones and muscles to heal. 

When Arthur even tried to move his arm, white pain made him throw up, broken ribs aching in protest. 

Like Swanson had told him: with being awake came waiting. Resting. 

He was bound to camp now. 

Bound to listen to Dutch and Molly bickering, voices low but venomous. 

And to Hosea and Dutch arguing.

_ You nearly got him killed _.

_ He’s going to be okay. Swanson said... _

_ He told you it was a trap, Dutch. He told you, but you didn’t listen! _

When Dutch came to see him for the first time the white pain had dulled down mostly. Had turned into a bright red. Still raw, but not as blinding. Tamed with herbs and booze, now that Arthur had started to refuse the heavy pain medication. His arm was still useless mostly, dead painful weight in a sling over his chest. Dutch came with promises and apologies. Guilt-ridden and sleepless and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince him or himself.

Next came Pearson looking like a beaten dog, head low, armed with a bowl full of a special stew he had made as a peace offering. Arthur wasn’t blaming Pearson. The cook was a good egg, who had just tried to help. It wasn’t Pearson who had wormed his way into Dutch’s mind. 

If Arthur was honest, he couldn’t even blame Micah. 

He should’ve resisted Dutch or at least brought back-up. Someone to watch his back, while he watched Dutch’s.

Arthur was in camp three weeks, when he felt ready to kill. He hated sleeping, cause with sleep came dreams and nightmares, but being awake was its own kind of torture and the lingering pain wasn’t even the worst of it. 

It was the boredom. 

The uselessness. 

There were only so many rounds of Domino’s you could play and books to read. Only so many times he could listen to Molly’s sorrows and John's and Abigail’s fights and Pearson’s stories. Once he was strong enough to constantly listen, but not deemed ready to leave camp or do chores that required heavy lifting, there was no escape. It wasn’t that he disliked the people around him. He liked sitting with Jack, while he was drawing or in comfortable silence with Charles. Adored Tilly’s quick mind and Karen’s bawdy humor, even though laughing made his ribs hurt.

He, who usually came and left as he pleased, who was used to pull the weight, was trapped. Trapped in a restless place with no real purpose. 

It was time to find the weak links in his nursemaids. 

Almost everyone of his gangmates kept him company, so he never was really left alone, always one pair of eyes on him, as if he were a newborn that demanded constant surveillance. So he had to figure out, who he could push enough to bend. 

He got Mary-Beth with some trading. She got him books and sweets, anything he needed out of town. In exchange he would read extracts of her stories, share some gossip he picked up in camp and allowed her a tiny peek onto some of his drawings, even promised an illustration to her. 

Sean was the easiest, but laziest. Unreliable. Only really used Arthur’s companionship to escape his usual duties, but could be easily bribed as long as it meant he had a chance to escape Hosea’s or Susan’s wrath. That was the pretense at least - Arthur knew that the annoying redhead was far too concerned for his approval to not do as he was told. 

There was Kieran, too, of course, though he usually didn’t come to visit Arthur on his own - and Arthur couldn’t blame him with him reminding him too much of the O’Driscolls and what they did to enemies and traitors. It kept Arthur wondering, how the kid had even ended up with Colm. He seemed too ...good. Fitting for the pack of misfits that was the Van der Linde gang, but not for the O’Driscolls. 

He only came once on his own, fidgety and nervous like a school boy in Arthur’s second week. Meant to tell him that Stranger, the moody black Shire Arthur had kept, was fine and that the O’Driscolls hadn’t even touched the saddle. Then he excused himself with _ “I assume a.. former O’Driscoll is the last thing you wanna see now.” _ He seemed to shrink under his own words, got smaller with the name of the other gang. Arthur had called him back, before he could run off though, just to say thank you and that seemed to make the boy happy. Stranger liked Duffy and for Arthur that was more than enough.

And then there was John Marston. He always lingered somewhere around his tent, never far off, not always in eyesight, keeping his distance to not step on his toes, but a constant presence all the same.

And whenever Arthur pushed, he gave in. 

At first it was a snatched cigarette, when Arthur could hardly sit upright and Susan had strictly forbidden it. Then a few sips of shine. That had been the easiest part. The tiny favors. 

Getting a shave out of him was more of a fight. Deep within Arthur knew asking John was selfish. That he shouldn't have asked him, but just left his beard as it was or asked someone with calmer hands like Charles or Javier. 

But he allowed himself the selfishness. He was either in pain or tried to keep the pain in check with booze and both took his walls and defenses apart piece by piece. 

Arthur knew, that the only reason for John to do his bidding was that he thought he owed him. For leaving as well as well as being rescued. That he was desperate to regain some of the friendship that had been there _ before _.

So Arthur was selfish.

Just for the short time sitting on an uncomfortable chair, head leaned back against John’s chest, so unsteady hands could tame a beard that had started to get out of hand. Just for listening to John cursing under his breath and a hand on his jaw trying to hold him still. 

He got John to watch out for him, when he took his much needed first cold bath in Flat Iron Lake, a chance to finally scrub all this filth off of him, his damaged shoulder kept out of the water. 

John sat on the damp shore, leaned back onto his elbows and watched the horizon. 

"I swear to God, Arthur, if you drown, I ain't gonna save you." He called out, his tone only halfway joking.

"Of cause you won't, I would probably end up saving you." Arthur spat back. 

The water was cold and Arthur almost passed out twice, but felt like a different person afterwards. 

In his fourth week Arthur had made a plan. It was a slow, but warm day and the camp was mostly empty. Dutch had left with Strauss to meet with Trelawny about some dept business. The women went to town to pick up some supplies and check for interesting leads. Hosea had taken the boat for a fishing trip with Lenny and Jack. Taking his time, Arthur pulled his boots on and lit a cigarette.

"Hey, Marston! Come here." He called out without even looking for him first. 

"What do you want?" The answer was almost immediate. A moment later, John strolled over, feigning indifference. Arthur gestured him closer, until he could reach for his arm to pull himself onto his feet, resulting in stumbling against him. 

“Easy there, big guy.”

Arthur snorted and patted his shoulder as a thanks, before he grabbed his hat and satchel and headed towards the upper campfire, where Kieran was polishing a saddle. 

John followed close behind.

“What do you think, you’re doing?” John's tone wavered somewhere between annoyed and curious. 

“I’m ridin’ out. Who’s on guard duty?”

“You crazy.” John sounded baffled. 

“No, but I will be, if I spend one more day trapped here. Now who’s on guard duty?”

“Sean, Bill and Javier.”

Perfect. Javier was a challenge, but the other two could be easily avoided or bribed. 

“What about Sadie and Charles?”

“Hell, if I know. C’mon, Arthur, you can’t be serious.”

Arthur ignored John and stopped in front of Kieran. 

“Duffy, where’s Sadie and Charles?”

Kieran blinked a few times in confusion, eyes jumping between Arthur and John.

“Out hunting.” He frowned. “I think.”

“Good. Now saddle up my horse.”

“Stranger’s still saddled, Sir. Wanted to move him a little today. You said…”

Arthur cut him off.

“I know what I said.”

Not waiting for another answer, he whistled for Stranger, who trotted over. The stallion sniffed at his hat and blew warm breath into his face. 

“Missed you, too, boy.” When he turned, he found John reaching for the reins. 

“I’m not going to let you do this.”

"You owe me." Arthur put weight into every syllable, chin raised. It was a warning. 

"I owe you shit, Morgan." John spat back, but Arthur knew that he had him. Knew from the way he lowered his eyes and chewed on his cheek. “You can’t.” It was a last weak attempt, drenched in the acceptance that he had already lost. Arthur pushed him aside. 

“Watch me.” He grabbed the saddle horn, put a foot in a stirrup and heaved himself upwards. The pain that shot through him made him twist over, jaws clenched. He tried to breath through it, tried to ignore how wide the pain still spread, that he could still feel it in his fingertips. 

“I’m watching and all I’m seeing is the most bullheaded son of a bitch, I ever met.”

“Not everyone can stand lazing about in camp for ages like you or Sean.” Arthur murmured back between gritted teeth. 

Arthur could see John shake his head from the corner of his eye. Then he whistled. Old Boy, who was still saddled, slowly trotted towards them and greeted his owner with a soft nudge against his chest. 

Arthur tried to calm his breath and rubbed Stranger’s neck, until he spotted John mounting his horse. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“I’m coming with you.”

For a moment Arthur just stared at him, tried to stare him down even, but Marston just shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

“The hell you are.”

“You can decide, Morgan: I’m either coming with you or you’re not going.anywhere. Your choice.”

“You’re a goddamn menace, John Marston.”

# 

The horseback wasn't the best idea. It was a horrible idea even. 

Every step, even the slow ones made his chest ache. Five minutes and he was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, the gunshot wound in his shoulder throbbing in the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat and with every pained grunt he could almost feel John’s eyes burning holes into his back. If it weren’t for his own pride and stubbornness, he would have turned around, tail between his legs. 

“Where we even going?”

Arthur was thankful. Thankful that John didn’t urge him to turn around.

Didn’t comment on Arthur’s hunched posture.

Thankful even for his presence. 

Because deep down, Arthur was a little selfish. 

“There’s a pond. Went fishing there with Javier few weeks back. It’s not that far.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. The clearing was just like Arthur remembered. 

Quiet. Peaceful. Nothing to hear but chirping crickets, the rushing of water and the rustling of the woods around them. He stopped next to the pond. 

Arthur almost stumbled from Stranger’s saddle, when he tried to dismount, but John was there to catch him. He hadn’t even noticed him being so close. 

“I’m not an invalid.”

John just rolled his eyes at the protest, helped Arthur to the middle of the meadow. There he lowered him onto the ground. 

Without further ado Arthur lay down on his back and let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

He didn’t move, just stared at the sky above him, until a bottle appeared in his field of vision. 

“What’s that?” He propped himself up on his usable elbow to have a better look at John, who had settled down next to him on the soft grass. 

“Gin. You want some?” It sounded like an innocent offer. Just a shared bottle of liquor. Not like a way to ease his obvious pain. 

Again, Arthur was grateful. 

“Sure.” He took the already open bottle and smelled the biting aroma of juniper and ethanol, before taking three large gulps. It burnt in his throat, but settled as a warm glow in his belly. Then he handed the bottle back to John and lowered himself back on the ground. He heard John drink, watched as his adams apple bopped up an down. Afterwards he planted the bottle on the ground, leaving it, where Arthur could reach it. 

“Did you think about Mary?”

The question hit Arthur like a train.

“What?” 

John avoided his eyes, looked everywhere, but not into his face.

“When you were…” John gestured. He seemed helpless. Out of words. 

“Are you asking me if I thought about goddamn Mary, when my feet were chained to the ceiling of some basement like some cattle after slaughter?”

He could see John wince at the image, face twisted as if in pain. 

“Yeah, I mean, did you think about.. how you would never see her again?”

“No.” He sounded harsher, than he meant to. “I didn’t care if I was dying, but he was gonna set the law on you.” Arthur hesitated, when John suddenly returned his eyes to his face. “On the gang.”

Their eyes locked for a moment. It was a loaded pause. Long enough to feel tensed. Too long to be comfortable. It was John, who averted his eyes first, who started to fumble for a cigarette. He lit a match on the sole of his boot and took a deep drag. He held his breath, before letting the smoke slowly escape from his nostrils.. 

Arthur just grunted a little, then stretched his hand out towards him. Wordlessly John handed it over, eyes not leaving him, when Arthur put it between his lips. It was a weird moment of well-known intimacy.

It was too easy.

Falling into patterns.

Arthur let his eyes fall shut, smoked in silence, until John plucked it back from his lips to smoke the rest of it. 

“You look like shit, Morgan,” he finally said, as he stubbed the cigarette in the dirt beneath them. “Take some rest.”

And without another word he stood up and headed for the pond.

It was quiet for a while and Arthur closed his eyes again, finally trying to get some real rest, head bedded in the grass, hat on his face to shut the light out. 

Until John started moving.

Arthur didn't need to see it. He felt the restless pacing forth and back again, the nervous fumbling with another cigarette. Then he started to throw stones into the pond like a bored out child. 

With a groan Arthur removed the hat from his face and threw it to the side.

"What?!" He snapped in annoyance.

"I didn't say nothing!"

John appeared above him, face twisted in mild anger.

"You want to. Spit it out, John." Arthur rubbed some sweat from his brow. Because this whole ordeal wasn’t already exhausting enough.

He could see John fighting himself. It was almost hilarious. After some more pacing, he sat down next to Arthur’s left, legs crossed and started to pick at the grass, eyes fixed on Arthur’s injured shoulder. 

"We were looking for you, you know." John’s raspy voice was low, barely audible.There was something vulnerable about it.

"What?" Arthur tried to sound reassuring. Warmer. For a moment John raised his gaze, only to lower it immediately, when their eyes met.

"When you didn't came back with Dutch and Micah. They said you was probably out huntin’ or somethin’... That's why we wasn't at camp, when you came home. We were looking for you. Charles and Mrs Adler and I… Sean and Lenny, too. Charles and I found the shack, but you was already gone." He sounded so pained, his eyebrows knit together, a deep frown on his forehead, barely hidden by a curtain of dark hair. 

There was pain in Arthur’s chest, one that didn’t stem from his ribs, but from a deeper darker place.

That made swallowing hard and he had to fight the urge to reach up, tuck the long hair behind his ear, soften the frown.

Because deep inside, he was selfish.

"Why are you telling me this?" He forced the words out, around the lump in his throat. 

"Didn't want you to think that… that we didn't care. That I didn't care where you was." Arthur could see John swallow, could see his turmoil and when he looked up, when their eyes met, he shuddered. “I do care, Arthur. I do.”

Arthur couldn't point the finger on it. 

On the moment things had started to change. When looking at John had started to _ ache _. 

When the anger and betrayal he had harvested after John’s disappearance had turned into something else. Into this lingering tiring crimson pain. 

As soon as realisation had hit him, he had tried to avoid it. Tried to use his old animosity as a cement for a wall around himself. It had started to crumble, when Javier and him had found him bloody and frozen half to death on this god forsaken mountains.

It had taken every inch of his self-control to not just pull him into his chest, put his own coat around him. Or to tie him to his horse, so he could never get lost again. 

It was different with Mary. Mary was addiction. She played him like a fiddle and he let her do it, because it allowed himself to dream for a bit. Dream out of the gang. She was so far out of reach. A distraction. A dog chasing his tail, who would be overwhelmed if he ever caught it. Mary was safe, because they would never happen. He wasn't much more than muscle for her. In a way, she was like Dutch. She didn’t even hurt anymore. Not like this.

John was different.

Too close and still out of reach. The tooth ache you tried to will away, until you got eventually used to it, even though it only got worse over time. 

But Arthur accepted it. In the snow of the Grizzly’s and wolves at their heels, Arthur had stopped fighting it and just welcomed the crimson pain of heartache as another part of his being. It didn't keep him awake. Sometimes it crept into his dreams. It was with him, sometimes latent, sometimes roaring wildly, never gone. 

It was hardest on days like these.

When John looked at him like this, his lips pressed into a thin unreadable line and frown digging hard lines into his forehead. 

“No need to care too much about an ugly old bastard like me.” Arthur tried to sound light-hearted. To lighten the mood. 

“Would you stop that?”

Apparently, Arthur had failed.

“Stop what?”

“Talking like this about yourself. Calling yourself ugly”

“What’s it to you?”

“I disagree.” There was obvious spite in John’s voice. Defiance. 

Arthur had to snort, but it died in his throat, when he dared to meet his eyes. They just stared at him, unafraid. Challenging him. Always picking up the next fight. Never backing down. 

At least not, when he should have. 

Arthur was out of words. Left helpless and too tired to argue. Instead he allowed his eyes to wander. Away from John’s eyes to the scars. The constant reminder.

  


“Does it still hurt?” The words were out before he could stop himself. 

“What?” John blinked at sudden change in topic.

Without thinking Arthur reached up. It was the pain. And the booze. Made him dizzy. Dulled. Lowered his guards just a little bit too far. He traced one of the scars with his finger, barely touching. The hint of a contact. Followed the messed up skin starting at his jawline and wandered over his cheek. It wasn’t a pretty scar. It was messy and rough. Like them. He rubbed a thumb over the end, where it met his cheekbone. His eyes lingered on the smallest one though. The one on his lower lip.

Because he was selfish. 

He only realized what he was doing, when John suddenly grabbed his hand. He didn’t push it away, just held it. 

Taken aback Arthur’s eyes met John’s again. 

He could almost spot it. The moment John's wondering and confusion turned into an idea and into action. 

When questioning turned into determination. 

He let go of Arthur's one hand, as he bowed down in an uncomfortable angle. 

Instead he placed it on his chest, without pressure, just above Arthur’s heart. 

John's lips tasted like tobacco, gin and apple juice. It was a thought he would come back to later, much later. Thinking back to this day and the taste of tobacco and apple juice. It wasn't much of a kiss, just a moment of wetted lips pressed onto his own, over too fast. It took Arthur by surprise. He wasn't able to react, just grabbed John by the front of his jacket to keep him from running tail between his legs, when they parted. 

“What do you think you're doing?” 

There was a hint of fear in John’s eyes. Doubt. His voice was drenched in it, when he answered.

“I think that’s pretty obvious. But maybe the others are right and you are much dumber than you look.”

Arthur knew what he should do. What the right thing was.

But he was in pain.

And he was selfish. 

“Maybe you should be more convincing next time, so it really gets into my dumb skull.”

The next kiss wasn’t perfect. John kneeled over him, trying not to put any weight on Arthur. He had propped himself up on his elbows and lower arms and knees.

It wasn’t perfect.

Yet it was.

John kissed like a drowning man gasping for air. Desperate and sloppy as if it could be the last thing he ever did. Like Arthur was oxygen. Kissed him, until he was left breathless despite his uncomfortable position. When Arthur pushed him away, breathing heavily, John didn’t really move, just rested his forehead against Arthur’s. His breath against Arthur’s lips. 

“I think I got it this time.”

A moment passed, then another.

Then John rolled onto his back next Arthur’s right side and started laughing. A loud, relieved, almost ridiculous laugh. Tear jerking. 

And Arthur couldn’t help, but laugh, too. Even though it hurt. Even though he was selfish. 

But this.

It was good. 

“You’re a goddamn menace, Arthur Morgan.” 

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said above, there's an alternative version of this.  
It's not meant to be "one pair is better than the other", I just wanted to explore the different dynamics, since I love both ships a great deal for different reasons. If you should have read both, I'd be interested in your toughts about that.  
If not, I still appreciate some nice words. 
> 
> If you feel like I forgot to tag anything, please don't hesitate to tell me.
> 
> Some information about Arthur's injury: broken ribs usually take 4 to 6 weeks to heal. A gunshot like this takes far longer and would probably have long lasting consequences, especially treated like it was. Chronic pain and nerve damage as well es less mobility is quite probable. Alcohol is actually a quite effective pain medication, comparable to opioids even. It's still not recommended for obvious reasons. 
> 
> If you want to talk, find me on Tumblr [the-other-bird](http://the-other-bird.tumblr.com) or Twitter [@ItsAnotherBird](https://twitter.com/ItsAnotherBird)


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